


A Life Worth Living

by theroachunderyourdresser (orphan_account)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Bars and Pubs, Heavy Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, POV Jean Kirstein, Single Parent Eren Yeager, Suicidal Thoughts, a bit dark, blink and youll miss it but I'll still put in a warning for, eren's two daughters are barely mentioned but they are probably cute, jean is sad - the story, jean's hoe of an ex wife, widowed jean kirstein
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22254610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/theroachunderyourdresser
Summary: "She was the embodiment of perfection. She was strong in places Jean failed to be, as was he for her. They fitted, they worked.But how was Jean to know that that was all a guise?"The short story in which Jean deserves better.(Please read tags for warnings)
Relationships: Jean Kirstein & Eren Yeager, Jean Kirstein/Eren Yeager
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	A Life Worth Living

His grip on the ring never loosened. 

His legs may be weak with fatigue, his eyes sagging with insomnia, his hair mused with stress, but his hold never faltered. He could practically hear her bellow from the front door, kicking a stray sock out of her way before standing right before the couch he now sat in, a freshly painted nail stabbing in his direction. Every day she seemed to come up with a new list of flaws to throw in Jean’s face, some old and worn, others new and the pain fresh in his chest. 

His wife hadn’t always been this way. 

In fact, the first few months of dating were the best months in Jean’s life. He'd always known her to possess a sharp tongue, but those kisses that lasted a beat too long to be cursory, the fleeting touches on his arm and neck, and the endless times she’d say his name in that playful way just for the sake of saying it – all her little gestures gave away her soft, sappy interior and Jean fell, hard. 

She was the embodiment of perfection. She was strong in places Jean failed to be, as was he for her. They fitted, they _worked_. 

But how was Jean to know that that was all a guise? 

Sitting alone on the couch of their shared apartment, Jean wondered when it had all gone to shit, and how in the world he never realised that he was kissing the lips of a woman who would go behind his back and bed every man that so much as glanced in her direction. He blames himself for not picking up on the clues, for not leaving sooner. On the shittier days, he’d even go as far as to blame _himself_ for his wife's affairs. Had he created such an unbearable environment at home that she couldn’t stand being there? Being with him? 

He pinched the band of metal and held it up to the moonlight. Their rings were simple for what they were, but the couple had agreed the minimalistic style suited them, as they shared a peck over the display case.

Three studs of diamond dotted the head, the centre stone subtly larger and more intricate in shape, small embellishments running down the shoulders. The ring he held between his index finger and thumb was looking considerably more battered up than the first time he had caught sight of it through the store windows. It had lost one of its side stones, along with a weaving of scratches on the interior, possibly reflecting how often she seemed to take it off. Jean was actually surprised she had been wearing it earlier this afternoon, when they had the fight, only to have her rip it right from her hand and bounce off the wooden flooring. 

The memory picked at a wound and he felt his nose tingle in that telltale way. He didn’t want to cry over a woman like her, not anymore. Even if he was somehow at fault for their fall out, he didn’t want to waste his energy on a woman who couldn’t find the time of day to sit down and have a proper meal with him but seemed to pounce at the first twenty-something-year-old who enters her line of sight. 

A quick glance at the time told him that he had officially sat on his ass crying for five or so hours, and he had the sore back and red eyes to prove it. This was the look Jean chose to wear out to the bar that evening, tucked away in a far-off corner as he sipped sparingly at his martini. The bar was at full-swing, with stereotypical drunkards hanging off each other’s shoulders as they hovered around the arcade machines, howling, pretty girls dotted around the place in clusters of three as they eyed up every Ken who’d walk past. Jean did neither of the sorts and instead chose to spectate. 

He lived vicariously through the bar-goers, felt the coy grin of a girl trying to smooth talk her way into getting a free drink, felt the dizzying sensation of the couple not so subtly making out under the guise of a ‘quick smoke’. It was nice - to feel something other than pain, doubt, regret. 

Once he realised how creepy he must have looked, Jean straightened up and rushed to finish his glass, his stomach letting out a pained cry as it longed for something other than poison. Jean ignored it vehemently. 

“Mind if I take a seat?” 

The man that flopped on the stool opposite him was gorgeous in every sense of the word: with his soft chocolate bangs and tanned forearms coming to brace on the table for leverage. His eyes seemed almost feral in the way they glimmered impossibly bright in the warm hue of the bar, and Jean had suddenly forgotten to breathe when they focused on him. They widened and the man stopped, looking a little shy. 

“Rough day?” Jean forced himself out of the trance and tossed the question around in his head as if it were the hardest question he’d ever encountered in all his 24 years of existence. 

“I’m sorry?” He hated how nasally his voice came out as and cleared his throat. At that, the gorgeous man – Mr Hottie, can we call him? - swirled a finger at his own face, the blonde deducting that he was referring to the puffy, flushed mess he made of himself. “Ah, right. Yeah... just, uh,” Jean didn’t know why he felt the need to give a reason but did anyway, “...sad movie?” He hadn’t meant for it to sound like a question, but Mr Hottie seemed to have bought it. 

Yeah, it was a cheap lie, but Jean wasn’t about to unload his problems on some guy just because he was a touch too attractive to be conversing with a wash-away like him. But the sympathetic look he received felt good anyway. 

“I’m a crier too, man. I probably cried harder during Toy Story than my two daughters, for god-sakes,” he admitted with a tinge in his cheeks. For some reason, Jean wasn’t surprised the guy had a family of his own. With ocean-deep eyes like him, it'd be a crime not to pass on his celestial genes. He could practically see Mr and Mrs Hottie each holding hands with two angels, the four of them blessing the streets of Trost with their matching Colgate smiles. 

“Shouldn’t you be home playing house with them or something?” Not that Jean wanted him to leave, but he couldn’t shake the thought that the guy probably felt inclined to stay with the crying guy in the back corner of the bar, so he added, “I’ll be alright,” just for good measure. 

He shook his head at that. “Sleepover - I have the house to myself.” 

Jean paused. “The Mrs?” 

He very quickly regretted ever speaking to the guy when teal eyes landed instinctively on a tanned, bare ring finger. “Do you see something I don’t?” He hated himself for the subtle crack in their voice, the words branding deep shame into his pale skin. It shouldn’t have been as hard to apologise as it was, but his swollen vocal cords kept the ‘sorry’ from coming out smoothly, and instead, his mouth made this awkward croak. The airy laugh that bubbled out of the other did nothing to ease the blonde. Even after finishing his portion, Jean kept the cool glass against his mouth, worried replacing it with a hand would give him away. 

Perhaps the brunette wasn’t expecting the silence to stretch this long because he adopted a look of concern and glanced back up, his eyes suddenly too bright for the dimly lit bar. “Hey, it’s fine. _I’m_ fine, see?” he punctuated with a hesitant but never the less dazzling smile. 

He could, now that the blurriness had finally fallen down his face. 

“Sorry,” he laughed, pressing his knuckles to wet lashes. 

Understandably shocked, the brunette sat speechless for a beat but recovered in record time. “I-it’s alright. Was it something I-?” 

“-No, of course not,” he shook his head, the backs of his hands now thoroughly drenched but his pride was too strong to just let him pull away and risk embarrassing himself even more in front of a stranger, albeit a strangely sweet one. 

His heart sank when he heard a bar stool scratch against the wooden flooring, two feet softly reaching the floor. He couldn’t say he didn’t expect it. If anything, the guy deserved a medal for not leaving the moment Jean entered his line of sight. 

Still, it hurt. Dull, but the pain was there. 

What he hadn’t expected was two arms to encircle his shoulders, pressing him into a warm body which smelt like cinnamon and fresh rain. His heart had somehow leapt into his throat but he made no move to escape the hold nor lean into it, in case this was some misunderstanding. He knew best that he was inept when it came to reading social situations. 

“Are you always this dramatic over movies or am I missing something?” A voice all too close chuckled carefully. Jean laughed too. Really laughed – too charmed to take offence to the tease. He did, however, dry his tears on their jacket so it was fair game. And for once in his life, he felt safe and enjoyed the moment for what it was. 

God seemed just fine with watching the blonde erode away for years, but Jean thanked him anyway. Thanked him for carrying his feet to the bar that night, instead of the roof of his apartment complex. Thanked him for letting him meet a man with eyes as deep as the love he held in his heart. But most of all, he thanked Eren. 

For blessing him with two beautiful daughters, and a life worth living. 

**Author's Note:**

> And better he gets.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos always make my day but I would appreciate any criticisms you may have.


End file.
